


the prices we pay

by dnc31



Category: Hamilton - Miranda
Genre: Age Difference, Alternate Universe - Mob, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Boss/Employee Relationship, Daddy Kink, Dirty Talk, Hand & Finger Kink, Hand Jobs, M/M, Older Man/Younger Man, Rimming, Size Kink, Slow Burn, Sugar Daddy
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-09-24
Updated: 2019-03-03
Packaged: 2019-07-12 19:46:37
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 12,934
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16002032
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/dnc31/pseuds/dnc31
Summary: "We pay a price for everything we get or take in this world."(L.M. Montgomery)Alexander Hamilton should be in his senior year of college at an Ivy League school. Instead, he's living on the streets and running with the wrong crowd.George Washington should be happily married with two kids and living in a white picket fence house, the archetype of the American Dream. Instead, he's the intimidating and calculating boss of one of the country's most feared mafias.One day, Alex happens to be at the wrong place at the wrong time and a dangerous run in with some of Washington’s men drags him into a world that flips everything upside down for him.





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hey guys !!! So, this is the prices we pay, the fic I have been talking about on my tumblr for a few months now and I'm SO excited that I finally get to share it with the world !!
> 
> Also: 1. So I accidentally fucked up the alternating pov chapters, so this chapter AND the next will both be in Alex's point of view, but the entire fic WON'T be like that 2. Most chapters aren't going to be this short, I promise !! 3. I didn't intend to post this on bisexual visibility day, but I'm really glad I did. In a way it kind of feels like I'm honoring our resident disaster bi, Alexander Hamilton, by doing it. 
> 
> Enjoy !!!

The brisk October air hits Alex sharply. He shudders, his threadbare sweatshirt doing little to protect him from the piercing gusts. There are plenty of other places Alex wishes he could be right now. Somewhere _inside_ being one of them.

It isn’t his fault he’s here though. There is a handful of different things he could blame his current situation on, but not one of them was himself. Okay, _fine_. It was totally, one-hundred percent Alex’s fault. But at least he was willing to admit that.

It’s common knowledge that Alex fucks up a lot. It is no different now. He had made a _possibly_ life-threatening mistake which had led him to where he is now.

Alex shouldn’t have tried to steal from the man. He _knows_ that. He _knows_ stealing is wrong. Has had it ingrained in his head since he was a small child and his mother, a shopkeeper herself, chastised him for stealing gum from a convenience store. But sometimes stealing is the only way to survive. And the briefcase had looked valuable, something Alex could sell for a couple hundred bucks. He didn’t even care for its contents.

So, now here Alex is, with two guns pointed at his head and a cluster of angry men glaring down at him from where he lay on the pavement. _Yeah_ , he had made a big mistake.

The man pointing his gun at the front of Alex's head motions for two other guys to pick Alex up. They grab him from under his arms and hoist him up, pushing him towards the man.

“Why’d you do it?” The man growls, his eyes narrowed in fury and his pale face now crimson red. “Do you work for someone?”

Alex had _definitely_ messed with the wrong people.

Another man comes running down the alleyway toward the group they have formed. Well dressed, fluffy hair in a ponytail, and _furious_.

“What in God’s name are you _doing_?” He shouts, a thick French accent annunciating the words profoundly. “He is practically _un enfant_! A child!”

Alex isn’t, actually. He’s twenty-two. And while maybe he has a slight baby face and doesn’t eat as much as he should, it’s not like he looks like a prepubescent twelve-year-old or anything. But despite the mislabeling and his frustration, he holds his tongue because there _are_ two guns pointed at his head.

He doesn’t particularly want to die at the hands of _whoever_ these people he pissed off are.

He looks around at them and notes they’re dressed pretty nice. Obviously important, in some way or another. Definitely not a gang. Which is a relief, because Alex isn’t part of one, but he’s had lots of run-ins with gangs in the last few years. And they were _not_ fun.

So, they’re something different. Worse, possibly. That realization makes Alex feel no better.

The question the man holding the gun had asked, “ _Do you work for someone?”_ echoes in Alex’s head.

For a fleeting moment, he believes these guys might be the mafia. Alex hopes not. He _desperately_ hopes not. Because if they are, his chances of dying this evening have gone up tremendously.

“What did the boy do?” The French guy asks the man with the gun.

“Took the briefcase,” he holds up the one Alex had almost gotten away with, “while I wasn’t looking.”

“It is important, no? For _Le Général_?”

The General? Alex speaks French, but he wouldn’t even have to speak the language to understand the meaning of that. Panic begins to set in when he realizes they’re probably the mafia and he’s probably already dead.

“Yes, sir. It is.”

The Frenchman whips around to face Alex. Alex immediately moves to glance down at the black pavement under his ratty sneakers, feeling like he had just been intruding on a private conversation. His heart begins to pound as he feels the man’s gaze burn into him. Alex slowly looks up and he feels like a deer caught in headlights. He’s frozen to his spot but all he wants to do is flee.

“What is your name?” The Frenchman asks. His lips are pulled together in a tight frown and he has his arms crossed over the front of his suit jacket.

“Alexander Hamilton,” Alex responds, almost a whisper. He wants to tack a ‘sir’ onto the end, but the man takes a few steps toward him and that is when Alex gets a good look at his face and realizes he can’t be much older than Alex himself. It seems the title wouldn’t have been appropriate.

“And why, Alexander Hamilton,” the man says, “did you feel it necessary to take that briefcase from my men?”

Alex wants to lie. He so _desperately_ does. But he can’t. He’d rather be humiliated than dead. So, he responds, “for money. I needed the briefcase for money.”

“For money?” The Frenchman looks down at Alex’s frayed and tattered clothing and then gives a short laugh. “Of course.”

“But what I really wonder, is how _did_ you manage to get that far without my men noticing. I’ll have you know, it is not easy to take something like that from them.”

The man tilts his head and narrows his eyes. He takes a few more steps towards Alex, uncrossing his arms, and then grabs Alex’s face with long, slender fingers.

“Hmm,” he says and examines Alex’s face, dark eyes raking over seemingly every detail. He steps aside and does a once over of the front of Alex’s body and then steps around to do the same to the other side. “ _Le Général_ will want to see the boy.”

He’s not speaking to Alex this time.

“But, sir he-.”  The guy gets cut off.

“ _Le Général will want to see him_ ,” the Frenchman repeats, firm. A command this time.

“Grab him and bring him to Lafayette’s car,” the man Alex stole from tells the other men.

Hands grab Alex’s arms and they drag him to the entrance of the alley to a sleek, black car. He doesn’t bother resisting. There’s a good chance his hours are numbered, and the longer he can stay alive, the better.

Surprisingly, they don’t throw him in the trunk of the car. But Alex does get shoved inside the backseat. It’s modern and way nicer than any car he’s ever been in before. It might not be as bad as he thinks.

Alex immediately takes back that statement as soon as a pair of cold, metal handcuffs are clicked on his wrists and a black bag is thrown over his head.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come find me on tumblr @whamfan


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is 3 weeks late and honestly, I'm not surprised with myself. Most chapters probably won't be posted within a week of the last. But, enjoy !!! (And look who appears !!)

Alex doesn’t know how long he is in the car. But when it finally stops, he isn’t released just yet.

Before the bag is even pulled off his head and the handcuffs unlocked from his wrists, Alex is pushed out of the car, into a building, and then what has to be an elevator. Once the elevator dings, Alex is continuously pushed along until he is stopped and the grip on his arm is dropped. The bag is finally tugged off his head and Alex blinks, light flooding his eyes. He finds himself standing in the doorway of a bedroom.

“The General will see you soon,” one of the men says as he unlocks Alex’s handcuffs. “In the meantime, don’t try to escape. It’ll get you nowhere.” The men shove Alex farther into the room and then leave, latching the door behind them. A few seconds later, the lock clicks from the outside of the room and Alex is finally alone.

Sitting down on the bed in the middle of the room and looking around, Alex realizes just how odd this day has been so far. And there’s a good chance it’s not even the evening yet.

And now, instead of being thrown in a cell or an interrogation room, or wherever else kidnapped people are taken, he’s in a  _bedroom._ Granted, it’s not a  _bad_ room. The room is nowhere near being opulent, but it is quite pleasant. It smells faintly like vanilla in the room and it’s clean. It contains the double bed, a small bedside table, and a closet. The walls are a light green color and there are two windows, covered by white drapes.

Alex is up in a split second once he notices the windows. He makes his way over to them, figuring he could potentially determine where these people have taken him. They weren’t in the car for  _that_ long. He must still be in the city. If not Manhattan, surely another one of the boroughs. No matter where he is, Alex knows New York City like the back of his hand.  

But, when he gets up and opens the drapes of one of the windows, he’s met with no luck. The window faces the brick wall of the building beside it. Groaning loudly, Alex plops himself back down on the bed. He must be there for at least another ten minutes when the key in the bedroom doors lock sounds.

The door swings open and Alex springs up off his back. He is met with the face of a curly haired young man, who can’t be much older than him. “Boss is ready for you,” the man says in a heavy southern drawl. He stands there, waiting for Alex to come to him, so Alex pushes himself off the bed. The guy starts walking down the hallway and Alex falters for a second, realizing now might be the time to make his escape. But when the other man says “follow me, right this way,” Alex remembers just how interested he is in finding out who this “General” person is.

They make their way down the narrow hallway, all the way to the end. Stopping abruptly in front of a dark wooden door, the man leading him knocks.

A deep, baritone voice responds from inside the room, “come in.”

(Now, he doesn’t know this now, but looking back, Alex realizes that the minute the voice answers back, he is  _fucked._ )

The man opens the door and they step into the room, which turns out to be an office. Alex looks around and his eyes land on the man doing work at the mahogany desk in one of the room’s corners.

“Sir, I have the boy,” the man who retrieved Alex says.

The General, Alex presumes, looks up briefly enough to notice them standing there. He glances at Alex and his handsome face is almost familiar. But almost as quickly as he looked up, does he go back to his paper. “Very well,” he responds, almost tepidly, a barely there southern twang to his words. “You’re dismissed, Laurens.”

The guard, Laurens, nods and then turns to leave the office, shutting the door behind him. Alex swallows, suddenly becoming very aware of the room he is in. He looks at the man sitting in front of him, who has still not picked up his head again.

Alex stands in the center of the now silent room, hands folded neatly behind his back, listening to his heartbeat for at least a minute until the General finally acknowledges his presence again.

“They tell me your name is Alexander Hamilton.” He still does not look at Alex. “Is that your real name or did you decide a false one would help conceal your identity?”

“It is,” Alex replies and clears his dry throat. “It is my real name, sir.”

Abruptly, the General pushes his chair back and stands up. He is like a giant to Alex, who hasn’t grown since he was fifteen because of poor health decisions.

But, not only is it the man’s stature. It is his broad shoulders and his large hands. And the almost menacing look on his face, probably a natural resting face, but only accentuated by the man’s thick eyebrows. Immediately does Alex recognize this man is _not_ someone to mess with.

“Do you know who I am?” He asks Alex, finally looking at him. The question is phrased lighter than his earlier one and the change in tone makes Alex do a double take. The General walks towards Alex, stopping only a foot or two in front of him.

The word ‘no’ almost escapes Alex’s mouth, but all the pieces fall together before he can let himself say it.

George Washington. The man in front of him, the General, is George Washington, inheritor of the Washington fortune and one of the richest men in New York. The head and only living descendent of a family long suspected to be associated with organized crime.

The rumors were true. The Washington family were not just rich businessmen and entrepreneurs who nobody _actually_ knew what their line of work was, but a crime family. To be crude, they were the mob.

Alex would be shocked, but his day so far as already been strange enough. So, he just nods his head. “I do,” Alex says to Washington. “I am aware of who you are.”

The man chuckles quietly. “Well, at least one of us can be done with introductions.”

Washington walks back to his desk and bends down to grab something from behind it. Alex definitely doesn’t stare as the sleeves of his shirt strain against his muscles.

Washington sets the object down on the desk and Alex instantly recognizes it as the briefcase he had tried to steal. The look on his face must give off an indication that he knows what it is.

“You recognize this,” Washington says, not a question, but a statement. Alex slowly nods, stepping towards the desk. “I am sure that Lafayette told you this previously, but it is nowhere near easy to take things like this from my men without them noticing. It takes a special sort of person to do that. One with either special skills, a brilliant mind, or a combination of both. I wonder, do _you_ have those skills?”

“I do not, sir.”

Washington sits back down in his chair and folds his hands on top of the desk. “I see.” He sits silently, thinking, for a moment. “Assuming you fit certain...criteria, your future situation may be much better than it previously was, Alexander.”

Alex has no idea what the sentence means, despite thinking about it for the next few seconds after Washington says it, but he shivers at the use of his first name. He usually hates his full first name, but strangely enough, he likes the sound of it in Washington’s voice.

“Knock on the door, will you?” Washington says, going back to his work. “Laurens can take you back to your room. There’s a restroom across the hall and I’ll send someone to fetch you some clothing so you may wash up, if you wish. I know this isn’t ideal, but I’m afraid until I figure out what to do with you, you will have to stay here, my boy.”

The man is right, it is not ideal at all. Of course the room is nicer than anything he’s been inside in well, _years_ , but Alex is a normal person who does  _not_ enjoy being kidnapped. To be fair though, it _was_ his own fault.

But, Alex knows what's done is done and he can’t change it now. So, he stops himself from saying something that could get himself in trouble, and turns around, walking towards the door. As he raises his fist to knock, Alex hears a low, “it was nice to meet you,” from behind him.

As his fist hits the door, Alex responds. “You too, sir,” he says softly, just as the door opens in front of him.

“You ready?” Laurens asks, appearing in front of him. Alex nods and Laurens grabs his arm, closing the door and then pulling him back down the hallway. “The boss will probably have Tilghman go fetch some of Jacky’s old clothes for you, so you can clean up. But until then, you’re just gonna have to wait in the bedroom. Sorry.”

They arrive back at the bedroom. The door is open so Alex strolls right in, but Laurens hangs by the doorway.

“Do you want me to grab you something?” Laurens asks Alex. He is is leaning casually on one side of the doorway. “Any books, food?”

Alex sits down on the bed and realizes that he is  _starving._ He hasn’t eaten anything since the sandwich some kind woman on the street gave him last night. The hunger hurts him, but of course, not as bad as the time he went a week without any food.

“Food would be nice. Anything is fine. And, I guess, same for books. I’m not picky.” Though, Alex would love to be, it’s just not a luxury he can afford. (But at this point is anything _really_ a luxury Alex can afford? The fact that most days he can barely afford to buy a Big Mac answers that question for him.)

Laurens turns to leave, but he pauses before he does. “Hamilton, it’s really not gonna be that bad,” he says, turning his head around to look at Alex. He pauses for a few seconds and sighs as Alex raises an eyebrow. “Despite his… _line of work,_ the General isn’t a bad guy. You’re gonna be _fine_. It’s gonna be _fine_ , kid.”

“Kid?” Alex repeats, raising his eyebrow again. “Who are you calling kid? You can’t be much older than me.”

Laurens’ face twists into a smile, and then he chuckles. “How old are you?”

“Twenty-two,” Alex responds.

“I’m twenty-four.” Alex was right, Laurens isn’t much older than him. Laurens quirks his head at Alex and then his face lights up **.** “You know what? I’m gonna see if I can volunteer myself as your guard. It might be nice for you to have a familiar face around.”

The other man is right, it would be nice. And Laurens doesn’t seem so terrible, so that’s a plus.

“Thanks.” Alex smiles. He looks at the windows and suddenly remembers he’d like to know where he was taken. His smile drops. “By the way, where the _hell_ am I?”

“I probably shouldn’t be telling you this,” Laurens starts, “but you’re at Washington’s Manhattan townhouse. We’re still in New York, don’t worry.”

“Nice to know?” Alex says quizzically. It’s not funny, but Laurens laughs anyway.

“ _Oh!_ By the way, I’m John. I think you and I might just become friends. And if we do, you should probably know my first name.”

“Nice to meet you, John.” Alex smiles. Maybe John is right and it _won’t_ be as bad. Alex really hopes so. Because if it is just as bad as he thinks it will be, there’s a million different things that could happen. And Alex doesn’t like the sound of all those possibilities.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come find me on tumblr @whamfan


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry that this took so long to finish !! This chapter was edited while I was extremely sleep deprived so please excuse any mistakes I've made. But enjoy !!

Damn Lafayette.

That’s all George has to say. Damn Lafayette for bringing him this _boy_. Damn him for finding Hamilton, a gorgeous young man who is barely older than a kid, and dragging him to George.

Damn him, because Alexander Hamilton hasn’t even been here for three full days and he’s already presenting himself as a problem. The trouble is, it isn’t just his looks that have been infesting George’s mind. The boy is positively _stunning_ (George would prefer not to dwell on that), but his personality and brain are just as magnificent.

The information George’s men dug up yesterday morning shows Alexander Hamilton is a genius. Despite that he was a foster child and moved schools a lot, the boy was top of his class all throughout high school, no matter where he was placed. He wrote weekly anonymous essays for his last school’s newspaper, ran two popular political blogs, and was part of every one of his high schools’ debate clubs.

_Somehow_ , his men had obtained some of Hamilton’s work from school and it is _impeccable_ , everything sounding more like an undergraduate student’s long-worked thesis than a sixteen-year-old’s english class essay. There is _no doubt_ Hamilton would have been accepted into the most prestigious universities if he had stuck around.

George knows he has two options here. Offer the boy a job and put him on his staff if he accepts, or send him off to meet his maker. He knows too much sensitive information either way.

The issue would be much more difficult to decide on if his men hadn’t been able to dig up this information and George is immensely glad it has been simplified for him. He thinks for another minute. Realizing it would be a waste of a brilliant mind if he were to choose the latter option, George makes up his mind almost immediately.

A sharp knock on his office door notifies him someone is outside. “Come in,” George responds, not bothering to ask who it is. Only a very small and selective group of people have access to his townhouse and even less on weekends such as this. As George sits up in his chair, the door creaks open and Lafayette’s face appears.

“ _Mon général_ ,” he starts, “I have become alerted that Hamilton is becoming restless. He desperately wishes to leave his room and is inquiring if there is any news of what you will be doing with him.”

“Restless? How?”

“He is… _feisty_ ,” Lafayette responds. He sighs. “The boy has started to pester and argue with the guards and currently, Laurens is the only one who is able to manage having to stand watch. Even requested it. If you are… open to it, might I recommend meeting with the boy?”

George removes his eyeglasses and then rubs his face. “I suppose you’re right.” He realizes he should tell Hamilton of his offer sooner rather than later. It would be unprofessional to meet with the man in his room and George needs to get out of his office. He’s been piled with work and stuck in here doing work all morning and afternoon. “Get him down to the living room. I’ll meet him there in a little while.”

“Yes, sir,” Lafayette responds, nodding. He exits the room swiftly, shutting the door behind him and leaving George to finish up reviewing the inventory report of an upstate storehouse.  

When he completes his work, George exits his office and walks downstairs, opting to take the stairs instead of the elevator. Stepping into the living room, he sees Hamilton is standing by the fireplace, observing an old photograph of George’s older brother Lawrence that is up on the mantel.

“I took that photo when I was a teenager,” George says, walking farther into the room and musing on the past. Hamilton spins around, clearly startled. “The night Lawrence officially took over as head of the family.”

George’s mother hadn’t wanted him to attend the celebration that night, but somehow Lawrence had managed to convince her to let George go. Never being intended to take over the role of boss, George had expected he would not be allowed at one of those types of parties again, so, he had brought a disposable camera with him.

It’s a wonderful candid photograph he had taken of Lawrence gazing off into the crowd surrounding him with a small smile on his face. George notes how Hamilton continuously glances back and forth between the picture and George.

The motion doesn’t strike George as odd, because save for a few features, he is almost a mirror of his late brother. The picture shows that it is the same smile as George’s that traces Lawrence’s lips, the same broad shoulders that fill his suit, and the same close-cropped curls George had gotten rid of years ago that sit atop Lawrence’s head. But remembering his brother is also a painful reminder of how much of a better man Lawrence had been.

“Your brother, I presume?”

“Yes,” George responds. “Half-brother, but yes.” The question prompts him to want to ask about Hamilton’s own brother. The one who had abandoned his younger brother in a time of need. Disregarding that they are pretty much strangers, George doesn’t dare solely because given the rest of Hamilton’s past, it is probably a sore spot.

The desire to want to dig deeper, to fill in the missing pieces his men couldn’t find still lingers. But, upsetting the person he is offering a job proposal to isn’t ideal.

“I was told you wanted to meet with me for something specific,” Hamilton says, fully turning around to look at him with an expression George can’t place. Something akin to anticipation, possibly even fear or anxiety.

Walking over to one of the armchairs, George sits. He motions for Hamilton follow suit, and so the man does. “I’ve come to a decision about what I’d like to do with you. Of course, it is entirely your choice, my boy, but it would greatly benefit you to accept.”

He spots the young man try to suppress it, but Hamilton’s face twists in confusion. He hesitates for a second before he responds.  “What—what is it?”

“How would you like a job, Mr. Hamilton?” George crosses his right leg over the other and folds his hands. “It has come to my attention that I am in dire need of a secretary and well, this option is very much in your favor compared to the other.”

“A _secretary_?” Hamilton simply stares at him with disbelief written on his face. “You must be kidding.”

“I’m not,” George responds. Hamilton only continues to gaze at George, skeptical.

“All due respect, _sir_ , but a secretarial job is beneath my abilities. Regardless of education level, I could do _so_ much better.”

“Your intelligence would be a brilliant asset to me. Not just that, but your courage and ambition, too. Your ability to survive on the streets for the past five years.” The look on Hamilton’s face is still skeptical, almost as if he is ready to get up and leave any second. “Mr. Hamilton, in this line of work, secretary doesn’t mean your average desk worker who makes phone calls and coffee.”

In a way, George sees his younger self in Hamilton; reckless, ambitious, ripped of his innocence at far too young an age, and plagued by death. He would prefer not to drag another person into his corrupted line of work, but maybe, just _maybe,_ there is a possibility that if Hamilton accepts the offer, George can set him on a better path.

Hamilton’s brow furrows and then he crosses his arms, looking down at the patterned rug underneath his feet. “Tell me,” he says, after a few silent seconds, “what this job would entail.”

An hour later, terms and conditions have been drawn up, a salary has been discussed, and George has explained what Hamilton would be doing if he were to accept. The only thing yet to be discussed is whether the young man actually _is_ going to assume the role of George’s secretary.

“I believe,” George says, “there is the elephant in the room that must be brought up eventually. Sooner rather than later, preferably.”

Hamilton nods. “I believe there is.”

“So?”

Not meeting George’s eyes, Hamilton looks away. His eyebrows furrow, deep in thought. He almost appears to be weighing the pros and cons by how focused he is. It takes a minute, but Hamilton finally snaps out of it. He takes a deep breath. “Yes. I’ll do it, I accept.”

George smiles. “Good.”

The situation is unconventional, to say at the very least, but George has a feeling that Hamilton is going to be a very loyal employee.

Late that evening, George is on the phone with Martha Custis, his oldest and closest friend and his second in command. She is in Virginia, sorting out some family matters. She and George discuss everything from business to her children, Jacky and Patsy. George is slightly averse to talking about work on the weekends but is always up for learning about what is going on in the lives of the children he helped raise.

“George,” Martha says at one point. “I was thinking about it, and I was wondering if you have come to a conclusion about what you are going to do with the street boy Lafayette picked up a few days ago?”

“I actually have. And I feel you may judge my decision, but hear me out first. Please?”

“I suppose I have to,” she responds, chuckling. “But I don’t think I particularly like the sound of what you are about to say.”

George sits back in his swivel chair, twirling a pen around his fingers. He is aware that Martha isn’t going to like what he has done, but it doesn’t matter. George is her boss and she doesn’t know all the reasons Hamilton will be a valuable asset to the team.

“I have made him my secretary,” George replies.

“A _secretary_? George Washington, are you insane? I don’t know how I thought you would deal with the boy, but I didn’t think you would offer him a job. He could be a cop, a _mole_ , for all you know!”

“I checked his records. _Everything_. The kid’s a high school dropout, a runaway, and homeless. He is  _not_ a cop.”

Martha only sighs her deep, ‘I’m not mad, just disappointed’ sigh she would use on the children frequently when they were young. She is clearly exasperated with George, but it’s only because of her motherly nature and her fierce protectiveness of those she loves. It’s understandable that Martha is just looking out for him.

They disagree often, but in most cases, Martha is generally the one who is correct or has better ideas, but George has a gut feeling about this. It’s not that he feels the need to be right, because he may be stubborn but he is not like one of those men. He just knows he is doing the right thing by hiring Hamilton.

“I’ll send his file over in a bit. Okay?”

“Okay,” Martha says. “But then get some sleep George, it’s late.”

“I know, I know. Talk to you soon.” She hangs up after he says that, the two of them having forgone formal greetings and farewells since their early twenties.

After George sends the file, he starts to tidy up his office but remembers there is another important thing he needs to discuss with Hamilton. Departing from his office, he walks down the hall toward the room Hamilton is staying in. There is no guard stationed at the door now, George having dismissed Laurens earlier. He realized there is no point in one if the boy is going to be one of his employees now.

Light seeps into the hallway from under the door, so George knows Hamilton is awake. He knocks on the door and a soft “come in,” responds. He opens the door and sees that Hamilton is sitting on the bed, reading a book.

If George thought Hamilton in ragged street clothes was gorgeous, he didn’t know what to call the boy in an old pullover and sweatpants of Jacky’s with his dark hair freshly washed. George is stunned by the boy’s appearance, but he doesn’t need to be _that_ boss.

“I know it is quite late,” George says, “but I must tell you something.”

Hamilton nods in response, big brown eyes looking up at him.

“Your… living situation is not good. And I feel I am obligated to do this after dragging you into all this, so I am offering that until you can save enough money to buy somewhere to live on your own, you stay here.”

“Are you sure, sir? I’m not sure how good of a roommate I’ll be.”

“I am very sure, Mr. Hamilton.”

Hamilton’s face crinkles. “Please, call me Alexander. Mr. Hamilton is way too formal for me.”  

“Very well, Alexander. I know you probably wish to get some clothes of your own, but we can worry about your wardrobe tomorrow. If there is anything else I can get you, just tell me.” George nods, an indication of ‘goodnight, I’m leaving now’, but Hamilton stops him.

“Wait! Could I actually get a hold of a laptop? And maybe every edition of the Wall Street Journal and the New York Times from the last five years. I need to know what I missed.”

George almost wants to laugh. But he doesn’t because of the sad reality of why Ha— _Alexander_ , is asking. For whatever reason it is, a boy who had survived his father leaving, his mother’s death, his brother abandoning him, and his cousin’s suicide had to run away from a foster home and abandon not just his friends and school life, but society, because he was only a kid with nowhere to go.

So George doesn’t laugh. He nods and smiles at the boy. “Whatever you need.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come find me on tumblr @whamfan


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is like two weeks late and I am SO SORRY but here it is !!! Please excuse any mistakes and enjoy :)
> 
> Disclaimer: I have never been fitted for a custom made suit in my life so be warned that my interpretation may be inaccurate.

It is almost unsettling when Alex wakes on top of the covers in a pile of newspaper articles and with an open laptop in front of him. The scene he rouses upon is almost reminiscent of his high school years when he would fall asleep while cramming for some test at whatever odd hour of the night and then wake up in a pile of notes.

The previous night had been extremely taxing. Once Washington had handed him the laptop and stack of newspapers that he had obtained from who knows where, Alex went straight to work. He had been out of the loop for so long and missed his fair share of events in politics, the business world, and even pop culture. It would have been impossible for him to read up on _everything_ , but he did the best he could, staying up until his body forced itself to shut down.

Which, admittedly, Alex is glad about. Because when gets up out of the bed and walks across the hall to the bathroom to he relieve himself and then wash up, he feels more rested than he has in ages.

When he comes back to the bedroom, he tidies up the papers on the bed and changes into another borrowed pair of sweatpants and sweatshirt. The routine feels almost familiar, after doing it for the past few mornings, except Alex realizes there is no guard outside the door. It takes him a few minutes, but it dawns on Alex why exactly there is no guard outside the door.

He had joined the mob the previous night.

Which, Alex knows, to the average eye, might not have been the wisest decision, but he is fully aware that Washington was correct when he said this was Alex’s most favorable option. He doesn’t want to think about what would have been done to him if he hadn’t accepted.

The only thing Alex can do now is follow what he is told and try to survive. If he is being honest, Alex would do just about anything at this point if it means he can keep living. Sure, there’s a part deep down inside him that wishes he didn’t have to live like this, that wishes he could be with his mother in whatever afterlife there is, but the majority _wants_ to keep going. So, when John knocks on the bedroom door to inform Alex he is being summoned downstairs to the dining room, he complies.

“Ah, he arises!” A startled voice speaks as Alex enters the room.

The words come from the Frenchman who had dragged Alex into this whole situation. He is slumped in a pulled out chair, crossed legs propped up on the large table in front of him. He isn’t dressed as smart this time, clothed in a simple blazer and skinny jeans.

“Legs off the table, Lafayette,” Washington orders, entering the room. He holds a coffee mug in his hands and a large gray dog Alex didn’t even know existed trails behind at his heels. The man wrinkles his nose, pushing up his glasses in the process. “It’s unsanitary.”

It’s no secret George Washington is an attractive man. Ever since he was a teenager, Alex remembers how the media loved to talk about the man’s appearance. He has always had the luxury of being one of the few non-entertainers who frequented pop culture news headlines.

But, seeing Washington dressed so down and in such a domestic setting does something to Alex. It awakens something in him that he hasn’t felt in a while.

The Frenchman, Lafayette, grumbles something under his breath that Alex doesn’t quite hear.

“ _Off_ ,” Washington demands, crossing his arms. Rolling his eyes, Lafayette reluctantly moves his feet off the tabletop.

“Now that _that_ is settled,” Washington says and he locks eyes with Alex. He gives Alex a warm smile.“I think we should get you some clothes today.”

Taking note of the “we”, Alex nods in response. The word implies Washington himself will be coming instead of the man sending a secretary or someone of the like to take Alex. Though, Alex supposes, that would technically fall under the job he has stepped into.

In an instant, Lafayette jumps to his feet, a bright grin spreading across his face.“Are you going to Hercules? Oh, _mon général_ , you _must_ let me come if you are! I have not seen him in so long.”

He doesn’t voice it, but Alex wonders if Lafayette has any actually work he should be doing instead of tagging along to pick clothing up for a random newcomer.

“You can tag along if you promise to not distract him.”

Quietly huffing, Lafayette nods. “I _suppose_.”

Alex stands there awkwardly, feeling painfully out of place beside the two men in the ornate room, talking about a person unknown to him. But until he learns the ropes of the business, it’ll be like that.

 

Almost an hour later, it is ten-thirty in the morning and Alex finds himself standing between Washington and Lafayette inside a quaint boutique named _Mulligan’s_ , on a bustling city street in the Upper East Side.

The triad waits for a few seconds before a broad man comes to their aid. As the tallest, largest, and above all, most imposing member of their group, Washington is noticed first.

“Mr. Mulligan,” Washington greets. He sticks out one of his large hands and the other man shakes it, almost hesitantly. “Good to see you.”

“What brings you here, sir? You normally call way ahead for fittings. Is there something wrong?” The unknown man, likely the Hercules that Lafayette spoke of earlier that morning, pulls a pencil out from behind his ear and fidgets with it. He is clearly troubled by their presence.

Washington chuckles, the sound echoing off the walls of the quiet shop. The panic on Mulligan’s face hesitantly fades.

“Nothing’s wrong. We’re actually here on behalf of my new secretary, Alexander.” Washington claps his hand down on Alex’s shoulder and Alex shudders, the warmth from the weight of Washington’s hand shooting through his body. “He’s in dire need of a new wardrobe.”

Mulligan’s panicked look returns as quickly as it had vanished. “An _entire_ wardrobe? Sir, that’s a little presumptuous, wouldn’t you say?”

Washington sighs and pinches the bridge of his nose. “Mr. Mulligan, could we talk for a minute in private, please?”

Mulligan nods and leads Washington away to another part of the store, leaving Alex alone with Lafayette, who wistfully watches as they go.

They are left in heavy, tense silence. Alex looks away from the other man, trying to avoid catching his gaze as they both look around the shop.

Alex’s eyes land on a mannequin, one of only three in the entire shop, with a black suit on it. The suit is elegant, slim cut and single-breasted. It is something Alex can appreciate, even with next to no knowledge about suits.

“Beautiful, is it not? An ungrateful customer returned it a couple years ago and it has been here since,” Lafayette says. “ _Mon Hercules_ makes such beautiful things.”

“ _My_ Hercules?” Alex repeats, turning around and quirking his eyebrow. Lafayette’s face flushes.

“A—a slip of the tongue,” the Frenchman stammers, trying to cover up his mistake. “I meant to say my _friend_ Hercules.”

 **“** What’s up with you two anyway?” Alex asks, desperately hoping he isn’t crossing a line. “For a guy who jumped out of his chair when you heard we were coming here, you didn’t seem too excited when we arrived.”

As if Alex understands what he means, Lafayette simply responds, “ _Le général_ is quite protective. I am sure you will find out yourself quite soon.”

Washington is a mob boss and there is no doubt he is a dangerous man. Not only does he have power, but it is likely the man could snap Alex in half without breaking a sweat. But what Lafayette said makes no sense in Alex’s mind. He mulls over the implication of the Frenchman’s words until Washington and Mulligan return, both looking significantly more pleased than earlier.

“Alexander,” Washington says, walking over to him. “Mr. Mulligan and I have decided that he will be making your suits and perhaps a few jackets. We can get the rest of your wardrobe somewhere else. Does that sound good?”

“Perfect, sir,” Alex responds as if he actually has a choice. He may not be frightened of the man himself, but the things Washington could do if Alex doesn’t agree with him _does_ frighten him slightly.

“Come right this way, Alexander,” Mulligan says. He smiles brightly. “I’ll take your measurements in here.” He leads Alex away to a small, secluded room housing piles of fabric and a sewing machine in the back. He motions for Alex to stand on the raised platform in the center, next to a small table. Mulligan pulls a tape measure of his pocket and begins to maneuver it around Alex’s body, taking his measurements.

“Where’d Washington find you, kid? I can’t say you seem like the type to be in the same line of work as the big guy.”

Hesitant to answer, Alex isn’t sure if he should tell Mulligan the truth. After all, despite the cryptic phrasing the tailor used, Alex doesn’t even know if he knows what Washington _actually_ does for a living. But Alex takes his chance. “Question for a question. What’s up with you and Lafayette?”

The tailor chuckles, moving around to pull the tape measure across Alex’s chest. “No can do. That’s _kinda_ personal.”

Alex would love to back off. But he’s stubborn as hell and now _really_ wants the answer to his question. Twice has he been brushed off and it just may be time to change his tactic. So, Alex tries to bargain.

“Please, Mr. Mulligan? I’ll even answer two questions for you.” Which might not be the most effective way, but nobody ever said Alex was a good negotiator.

“First of all, just call me Hercules, kid. Secondly, no.”

Groaning like a petulant child, Alex throws his hands up in frustration. “ _Come on_!”

“Damn,” Hercules says. He pulls the pencil out from behind his ear and takes down the measurement of Alex’s arm length. “You really are persistent. I see why the boss likes you, kid.”

“ _The_ boss? You say that as if you work for him too.”

Hercules stops writing. The man’s face blanks with confusion and he turns to look at Alex.

“Are—are you not aware I also work for Washington?

Alex blinks, the realization hitting him like a ton of bricks. “I… am now.”

“This is a front. It still runs as a functioning business, but I’m one of Washington’s men too.”  The pieces fall together and it all makes perfect sense, making Alex feel like an absolute idiot.

“If it makes you feel any better, Lafayette didn’t realize the first time he tagged along with the big guy, either.”

“You _have_ to tell me what’s really going on between you guys.”

Hercules sighs in resignation. “Kid, look,” he starts, face softening, “I really shouldn’t be saying this to you, but have you ever been in love with someone you can’t let yourself be in love with?”

“No,” Alex responds, never having been in love period. High school was spent focused on his grades and ages seventeen and on were spent trying to keep himself from dying. Hook-ups and one-night stands were one thing. They provided a place to sleep for the night and sometimes even a meal in the morning. But love and long-term relationships were luxuries Alex couldn’t afford.

“Well, that’s my relationship with Lafayette.”

There are hundreds of reasons as to why Hercules can’t let himself love the other man. Maybe he believes Lafayette to be too young or maybe he believes his feelings aren’t reciprocated. Whatever it is, it sounds like a horrible feeling.

“Lafayette found me on the street,” Alex says quietly, after a few silent seconds of awkwardness. “I tried to steal something from his men.”

“I honestly can’t say I’m that surprised,” the tailor responds, grinning. The man is easy to talk to, so after that incident, he and Alex drift into comfortable conversation, part small talk and part banter.

“ _And_ ,” the tailor says after a while, dragging out the word and snapping his tape measure shut, “we’re all done.” They return back to the main part of the shop and Alex is relieved to hear it is finally time to create the suits.

Having no knowledge of suits, Alex steps aside and allows Washington to pick the cuts and fabrics. It doesn’t take long, there only being one delay. Hercules asks what sort of style Alex likes to wear for suits and Washington shows him a picture that Alex doesn’t even want to ask where he obtained of Alex from his junior prom.

The photo is horrible; a grimace set on Alex’s face as a result of his foster mother forcing him to attend, his rented suit three sizes too large, and his hair an atrocious and greasy mess. Once Hercules sees the photo, he erupts into laughter. The tailor only ceases once Alex glowers at him.

After Washington and Hercules finish the selection, Alex also allows Washington to pick out the colors for him. Without a doubt the man has a more keen eye for that sort of stuff.

Alex is forced to stand on another platform, this one in the main part of the shop and placed in front of a full body mirror.

Through the mirror, Alex watches Washington sift through the squares of sample colors. It doesn’t take much time before his hand is stopping and he selects an emerald green square from the pile. Washington moves to where Alex is, long legs quickly striding over.

Raising it to rest just above Alex’s heart, Washington holds the square against the fabric of Alex’s shirt and lets out a warm breath. It tingles Alex’s ear and raises goosebumps on his skin, leading him to realize just how close Washington is to him. The man is looming over him, almost pressed up against Alex’s back but not quite.

“Alexander,” Washington says, quiet and deep, a little hoarse. Alex slowly raises his eyes to meet Washington's gaze in the mirror. “I think this green would look nice on you, my boy. _Very_ nice.”

The whisper sends shivers down Alex’s spine. It is in that moment that he has to restrain himself from getting… _excited_ , for the first time in years.

“Hey, kid, come here,” Hercules says from the other side of the shop at that moment. Alex has never been happier to have been told to do something in his life. He obeys and steps down from the platform, walking to Hercules. “I was thinking we could throw in some undergarments to go with the suits. Not to brag, but I can tell you my stuff is more comfortable than most off the shelf stuff.”

Alex nods, not really knowing how to respond. It was never really something he thought of much after being homeless for a few years. After a while he had started to forget that he had been wearing the same clothing for multiple days or even weeks at a time.

“The thing is, you have options. Boxers, briefs, boxer briefs, and more. Some men even prefer a more… feminine style.”

Alex understands the meaning of the phrase perfectly. And he’s not opposed to the idea, he just never thought about it in depth.

But truthfully, the idea of wearing a style more feminine doesn’t seem all too bad to Alex. Something that sits easier under tight pants would certainly be more comfortable. And something sexier would certainly be entertaining. The idea of it sends a thrill through Alex.

He can just imagine it. Can just imagine pulling on a pair of tight, lacy panties in front of a full body mirror. Can even imagine large hands settling on his hips and lips placing themselves on his neck while a low voice tells him how good he looks. It’s a perfect fantasy to Alex, one he had conjured up years ago on a whim during a masturbation session.

The only difference between sixteen-year old Alex’s fantasy and twenty-two-year-old Alex’s fantasy is when Alex imagines himself turning up his gaze in the mirror to face his lover, the man finally has a face.

And the face perfectly matches Washington’s. 

“ _Shit,”_ Alex hisses to himself, quiet enough that Hercules won’t hear him. It’s not exactly the realization he wants to have before noon on a weekday afternoon, but Alex realizes he kind of wants his new boss to rail him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come find me on tumblr @whamfan


	5. Chapter 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the almost two month wait !!! I had a TON of stuff going on. Warning: This chapter includes teaching someone how to shoot a gun and I have never shot one before so please don't come at me if it is inaccurate. Also, please excuse any mistakes. I don't have a beta. 
> 
> Kudos and comments are much appreciated :) Enjoy !!

The months come and go. October passes and fades into November, the weather turning colder and gloomier by the day, only a glimpse of what is sure to be a harsh winter. 

Thanksgiving is spent as usual with Martha, the kids, Lafayette, and a few other high ranking men. This year, their group expands and has two new additions; Laurens and Alexander. Which means the day finally allows for the long-awaited first meeting of Martha and Alexander.

Before Alexander is even finished getting ready, Martha arrives at the townhouse. Every holiday, George always tells her there is no need to rush and arrive so early, but she insists.

George sends Tilghman upstairs to grab Alexander and bring him to the living room, because knowing his oldest friend, Martha is going to become irritated if she has to wait long. On both ends of the acquaintance, George knows there is anticipation. But, while Alexander is anxious, Martha is excited.

George stalls for as long as he can until Tilghman and Laurens arrive downstairs with Alexander. Alexander has settled into his role more comfortably in the past few weeks and he looks perfectly in place walking down the staircase.

Neither of the two men by his side lead him. They converse like old friends and there is an air of confidence around Alexander that George certainly has not seen before. Whether it is real or just a front put up by Alexander to install false confidence in himself, George cannot be sure. 

Nevertheless, it is a good look on him. A _very_ good one.

“Alexander,” George says, standing up as the boy walks toward the couch where George and Martha are seated. “I’d like you to meet someone. This is Miss Martha Dandridge, my oldest and closest friend.”

“He seems to have left out one of the most important parts,” Martha says, standing from the couch and giving George a knowing smile. He fondly rolls his eyes at his friend.“I’m also his second-in-command.” 

Alexander laughs lightly and it is a pleasant sound. “Is that the polite way of saying you’re the underboss, Miss Dandridge?”

“I suppose it is, Mr. Hamilton,” Martha replies, the corners of her mouth twitching and fighting back a smile.

 Alexander seems to be taken aback. “I see the boss has told you about me,” he says, almost surprised.

“Indeed he has told me about you. A lot, actually. I just couldn’t wait for us to meet.”

“Okay, I don’t think I told you a _lot_ ,” George says, trying to keep his pride intact. There is a _possibility_ George had spent quite some time with Martha raving about the boy, but Alexander doesn’t need to know that.

Martha rolls her eyes and huffs in fond exasperation. “He’s lying,” she whispers to Alexander, just loud enough for George to hear her.

The three of them continue to converse for a while. They talk more of what is going on with their jobs and the business. Alexander learns of Martha’s children, Jacky and Patsy, and promises to introduce himself later on.

Eventually, Martha leaves. “Oh, I haven’t said hello to Lafayette yet,” she says. “Excuse me, but I _must_ go greet him.” She withdraws from the conversation and walks over to Lafayette, who is standing in the doorway of the living room.

“Forgive my rudeness, sir,” Alexander says, his gaze still on Martha, “but may I ask what the situation is with the father of Miss Dandridge’s kids?  You refer to her as miss, yet... ”.

George sighs. While it may not be best to give away Martha’s personal story, Alexander will eventually find out somehow. The boy is too inquisitive to not continue asking around. George would rather Alexander find it out from him rather than someone like Jacky, who the topic is sensitive to. 

“Her husband, Daniel, passed away many years ago,” George says. “She was young and had two small children so, I helped her out. She moved in with me and I aided her in raising Jacky and Patsy.”

“Is that why you have clothing roughly my size just lying around?”

Chuckling, George responds, “Indeed it is.”

Alexander stays silent, staring down at the carpeted floor below. His eyes become heavy and what seems like a cloud of gloom washes over his entire body. “I think what you did was really kind,” he says softly. 

“It really wasn’t much. Just helping out my—”.

“Most people wouldn’t do that,” Alexander interrupts, his tone bitter. “I’m sure you already know, but my father left when I was young. Nobody helped us after he did. We were poor and my mother was left to raise me by herself. She overworked herself trying to support us and she got sick.”

“And she passed,” George says, knowing how the story ended and started for quite some time, but never knowing the intermediate details. 

“Don’t humble yourself, sir. You’re a better man than you think you are.” And with that, Alexander walks away towards the kitchen, not looking back. 

The night flies by. Dinner is successful, the food delicious and devoured quickly. The guests drink and relax, a perfect break from the chaos of their usual lives. Martha sits by Alexander at dinner and George catches them talking many times. They seem to get along well and George is glad. 

Late in the night, George spots Alexander sitting on the floor with Lafayette, Laurens, Tilghman, Trumbull, and Patsy, playing what seems to be a card game. He doesn’t want to disturb the young people, so George steps out to the balcony, relishing the brush of cool air against his face.

The night is busy, the usual city buzz filling the air. After living in the city for so long, the sounds have become white noise to George. They are almost relaxing and allow him to sit back in one of the balcony chairs and close his eyes. He rests for a few minutes, relishing the few moments of tranquility and solitude.

The balcony door slides open and George’s eyes snap open. Martha appears in the doorway, wine glass in hand. “It’s chilly out here,” she says, her curls blowing in the wind. George just nods, moving his gaze to stare down at the busy city street. “Are you okay?” 

“I’m fine,” he responds, quick and curt. “Just… tired.” It’s been a long evening. He would prefer to continue his alone time, but Martha’s presence is calming enough for George to allow her to stay. Making her way toward George, Martha seats herself down in the chair beside him, following his gaze to the sidewalk down below.

“I was thinking about Alexander,” Martha says. George’s attention immediately snaps to Martha and she takes a sip of wine, chuckling into her glass.

“What exactly about him?” Martha’s mouth opens but she pauses and says nothing. “You don’t like him.”

“I don’t not like him.”

George quirks an eyebrow, a puzzled expression making its way onto his face.

“Meaning?” The silence George and Martha allow themselves to fall into is usually not uncomfortable, but the tension between them now could be cut with a knife when Martha doesn’t respond. “Martha?”

“I _know_ you,” she eventually lets out. Her voice is thick and heavy. “And having Alexander around? I don’t really know how I feel about that. Don’t get me wrong, he’s a great kid. But, he reminds me just a little too much of you at his age and I see exactly why Lafayette brought him to you.”

George doesn’t respond, so she keeps going. “You just need to understand… that boy is either going to save you or _ruin_ you.”

It takes longer than it should for her words to impact George. His throat closes up when they do, unable to formulate a response.

“It’s getting late.” Martha stands up. “I think we’re going to head out. Goodnight, George.” She squeezes his shoulder and softly kisses his cheek, walking back inside.

After Thanksgiving, things start to change. Work slows down, which means there is less business to do and more time to do other things. George spends much of his free time relaxing by himself and spending time with Jacky and Patsy. When there _is_ work to do, George and Alexander work side by side. They become closer, but it is obvious Alexander’s past prevents him from opening up too much to George. Alexander tells him nothing more of his past.

In his own free time, Alexander will sometimes go out at night. At least once or twice every week. Each time, George is certain it is to hook up with someone. He is a young man with needs and it is understandable, but George doesn’t like the idea of it. Coming from the leader of the east coast’s largest crime ring, it must sound ironic, but it is much too dangerous. Anything could happen to him. And _fine_ , George will admit he has become attached to the boy within the past few weeks. He is concerned for Alexander’s security.

Nobody has to know the reason Laurens tags along on those nights is because George ordered him to look after Alexander. A friendship is building between the two young men anyway.

George’s concern for Alexander’s safety leads him to realize there is only one way to reduce his worry. He has no right to put an end to Alexander’s nightly affairs, but George _can_ give Alexander a form of self-defense. While physical defense is the more preferable option, George has always had a liking for guns. Experience has also taught George it is easier to teach one to fire a gun than to teach them all the places to hit a person to weaken their defenses.

The situation plays out perfectly once George learns Alexander doesn’t know how to shoot a gun but would like to.

The best place to instruct Alexander would be the grounds of Mount Vernon. It is peaceful and has tons of open ground with many natural targets, but there is no time to go out of their way and take the four-hour drive down to Virginia.

One afternoon, following a meeting with one of his capos stationed upstate that George had Alexander tag along on, he drives them out to the woods to teach his secretary to properly fire a gun.

The sun shines down on them through the trees and reflects off the gun as George pulls it from his coat pocket. Living in a world made of unpredictability means George will never know what might happen next, so he always keeps a gun handy.

This particular one is George’s favorite. A small, beautiful handgun– gifted to George by Lawrence when he graduated high school. His brother had his initials engraved on the side, G.W., in gorgeous script. George usually keeps it in the top drawer of his bedside table, but for some reason, it just felt right to teach Alexander to shoot using this one instead of the one stores in the car glove compartment.

“May I ask why we aren’t at a gun range, sir?” Alexander asks, leaning against the car. He finishes sending a text to someone, presumably Laurens, on a phone George had gifted to him just a few days earlier as an early Christmas gift. Initially, Alexander had resisted and refused to accept it, but somehow George eventually persuaded the stubborn young man.

“Too risky,” George says, abruptly. Alexander’s face twists into a puzzled expression, so George clarifies. “It would be suspicious if I were to show up at a range, dressed like this, with you, on a Tuesday afternoon. Alexander, I very much want to teach you how to do this, but I can’t afford to risk everything in the process.”

“I guess it also gives me more of a sense of what shooting at a real target is like,” Alexander responds dryly.

“You’re not wrong.” George chuckles and claps Alexander on the shoulder, leading him to the middle of the clearing. “I figure we can start here, with something easy. Perhaps, a tree?”

“Sounds good,” Alexander replies, nodding his head eagerly.

“Alright, we can go with this one right here. Aim for that dark ring right there. I’d like to see you try first.” George points to a tree at the edge of the clearing, not too far from them. It’s a good enough distance away that it won’t be a difficult target to hit.

Alexander has a general idea of how it is done, probably from movies. But his first shot is, to be completely honest, _atrociou_ s. The bullet hits the ground, feet away from the target, and his aim and stance are all wrong. But, George, ever the patient teacher, has Alexander try again. This time with more hands-on help from George.

“Oh, no, Alexander. That is very much _not_ how it is done. Let me help.”

The boy’s cheeks flush a bright pink and he looks away from George’s gaze. “Oops,” he says quietly.

George fights back a smile, not wanting to embarrass Alexander further. He moves over to Alexander and stands behind him. He corrects Alexander’s stance and shows him how to hold the gun, placing each slender finger exactly where it should go. After showing Alexander each step of the process, the boy quickly becomes a natural.

“Are you ready?” George asks once he believes Alexander is good to go. He keeps his gaze straight ahead, not wanting to break the calmness they have instituted around them.

 Alexander nods, biting down on his bottom lip. “I am.” George closes his fingers around the trigger, tightens his grip over Alexander’s smaller fingers, and slowly pulls. The sound echoes in the air like a crack and the bullet hits the intended target, a crisp shot.

 Lowering the gun down, Alexander doesn’t try to pull away or push George’s hands off his own. His fingers continually twitch, as if he is debating over whether to move or not.

“Good job, my boy,” George says, deep and close to Alexander’s ear. The name slips out as an afterthought. It must be wrong to address Alexander that way, but George can’t help himself. In the past few weeks, he truly has begun to see Alexander as his boy. It would be appropriate if George meant it in a paternal way. But he _doesn’t_ , and that is what makes it a problem.

He thinks back to his conversation with Martha on Thanksgiving.

 _'That boy is either going to save you or ruin you',_ she had said. And as much as George wants to say that she is _wrong,_ he can’t bring himself to do so. Because Martha knows him all too well. She knows _why_ George hired Alexander and recognizes that Alexander is practically a mirror of George when he was young.

It takes until this moment for George to fully understand the implication of Martha’s words. She saw through him, realized something he hadn’t even at the time.

When he was young, George promised himself to not get attached to people. Martha and the kids were the only exceptions to that rule for many years. Until now.

Alexander Hamilton has managed to sneak his way past the stone walls George had put up. He cares about Alexander, likes him more than he should. He’s attracted to more than Alexander’s face and body. Which is why this situation is a problem. George must be careful or he is going to do something _extremely_ stupid.

“Come on, let’s see if you can do it yourself now,” George says, pulling away from his grip on the gun. He tries to push the thoughts out of his head, but then Alexander pushes his hair out of his face, a wonderfully majestic movement, and George realizes it might be harder than he thinks.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> come find me on tumblr @whamfan


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm back with another chapter (even though this one is kind of a mess) !! Hope you enjoy !! 
> 
> Don't forget to leave kudos and a comment :)

As he watches from the doorway of Washington’s bedroom, Alex notices there is something unusually graceful about the way the man dresses himself. Washington is elegant and fluid compared to how Alex puts on clothing.

Alex finds his mouth dry as he watches the man button his shirt and fasten his cufflinks.

Washington’s eyes dart around the room, searching for something, and his gaze suddenly falls on Alex, finally realizing he is standing there. “ _Oh_ , Alexander,” he says, startled. “How long have you been there?”

Darting his tongue out to wet his lips and swallowing deeply, Alex tries to speak. His words still come out slightly hoarse. “Not long. But, I–uh, got the jacket you asked for, sir.”

“Perfect. I’m glad you could find it.” Washington steps over to Alex and reaches out his arm. The sun shines on his face through the windows and in the golden, early morning glow, he is mesmeric. It isn’t fair to Alex, whose heart thumps in his chest at the image in front of him.

Hesitantly, Alex sticks out his own hand to transfer the suit jacket back to its rightful owner.

Giving Washington the jacket means the man can finish getting dressed and then leave. Leave on a trip down south for an indefinite time. A week, his boss had approximated. Alex tries to ignore the pang in his heart when he thinks of being alone, not knowing when, or even _if_ , Washington will return.

Washington had told Alex the trip was too dangerous to allow for him to tag along, but there is a part deep down in Alex that wishes Washington will tell him to pack his bags last minute.

Grabbing the top of the hanger, Washington’s hand encases Alex’s smaller one. His hand is warm and steadying. A calm presence. For a second, Alex forgets his boss is leaving. But then Washington pulls his hand away, warmth replaced by the cool air of the room, taking the hanger with him.

“Alexander,” Washington says, slipping on the jacket. “Would you meet me downstairs in the foyer in two or so minutes?”

Enchanted by just how _attractive_ Washington is in his suit, Alex takes a few seconds too long to respond. “Uh, yeah, will do.”

He counts, a result of the anxiety building up inside him,  and it is exactly two minutes and thirty-four seconds letter when Washington arrives downstairs. His dog, Sweetlips, as Alex found is his name, trails behind Washington. Sweetlips must know his owner is leaving because, in a way, the dog looks sad. Alex empathizes with him.

Clapping his hands together, Washington gains both Alex and the dog’s attention. “Alright,” he says, voice raising an octave. “You know where the house keys and car keys are? And you know Sweetlips’ eating and bathroom schedules?”

“Yes, sir.” Alex nods, Washington having informed him of both the day earlier. His face must give away everything is not as fine as it should be though, because his boss sighs.

“This is your home now, my boy,” he says, giving Alex a small smile. “You live here. Don’t be nervous. If anything goes wrong, feel free to call me. I won’t hesitate to drive right back home if it is dire enough.”

That isn’t what Alex is worried about, but he nods anyway. Washington proceeds to clasp Alex’s shoulder. He doesn’t squeeze, he just leaves his hand. The touch is warm through Alex’s shirt, and the heat spreads through his body like a wildfire.

Breathing out deeply, Alex tries not to think about how Washington’s hand is close enough to his face that if he moved his hand up just a few inches, he’d be cupping Alex’s cheek. Alex is unsure whether his reaction stems from being without affectionate touches for years or if it is just because the person touching him is  _Washington._

“I best being going now,” Washington says, deep brown eyes seeming almost regretful. “I’ll see you soon, my boy.”

Giving Alex’s shoulder a quick, reassuring squeeze, Washington picks up his packs. He ruffles Sweetlips’ fur and looks back at Alex once more. He is out the door in a matter of seconds.

Alex turns to look at Sweetlips, who is wagging his tail and staring at the door. Alex sighs. “Guess it’s just you and I, buddy,” he says to the dog.

He is met with silence.

The next two days are spent in complete solitary. Alex does some work, but with Washington gone there isn’t much to do, so he finishes rather quickly. 

Playing with Sweetlips and taking the dog on walks is entertaining, but there is only a certain amount of times he can do them. It doesn’t help that there aren’t much _good_ daytime television shows and Alex isn’t aware if Washington has Netflix.

It takes those two days for Alex to realize not only is he bored, but he is _lonely_. Which is horribly ironic because Alex has spent over ten years virtually alone, but in just the past few months he has come to depend on the company of others.

His solution is to text John and Lafayette, who he has begun to see as friends. It helps that they are within a similar age range, but the three of them get along well.

For the first time since he was a kid in the Caribbean, Alex has _friends_.

They decide to hang out at the townhouse later that evening. Lafayette promises to bring booze and John promises to get snacks.

Arriving around seven in the evening, both men bring their promised goods. Alex tells them where to hang their jackets and place their things, despite them knowing already. It feels odd to act as host in a home Alex doesn’t quite consider his own yet.

The trio find themselves on the living room couch a couple of hours later. They’ve drank some beer and ate pizza and made the decision to watch a movie. The problem is, they can’t decide what.

They log on to Netflix using John’s account but they don’t get past that point in the movie watching process once they start arguing on what they want to watch. They, as in mainly Lafayette and John. Aware that Alex has missed out on much of “real world time”, as they call it, each wants to watch a movie they think he _needs_ to see.

For the first time in a while, Alex sits silently. He watches the two argue as he pets Sweetlips, who Alex has found to be a pleasant companion. Despite being of a hunting breed, the dog just wants love and attention.

“We are _not_ watching Bandersnatch,” Lafayette shouts in frustration.

“Oh, _I’m sorry_ ,” John replies sarcastically. “What suggestion do _you_ have?

“Well, I can’t really choose, but we are not watching _that_ stupid movie!”

“Are you kidding me?” John throws his hands up in frustration. “God, you are so indecisive! Can’t pick a movie, can’t decide what to do with the love of your love. What’s next, huh?”

Lafayette gasps dramatically, his hand over his chest like a telenovela star. “ _Mon Ami_ , that is just _cold!_ In front of _Alexandre, too_?”

“As if he doesn’t know.” John rolls his eyes. “You talk about Herc like ninety-percent of the time.”

Alex figures now is a good time to intervene, before the two men start to _actually_ argue. “Yes, I do know about how you feel about him. But, please, the movie?”

“Hah!” John shouts, pointing at Lafayette. He turns to Alex, smirking. “But, do you think Laf should make a move soon. Because there are totally sparks flying there but this idiot doesn’t believe me.

Alex presumes that their movie plans are already out the window at this point, so it can’t hurt to respond. “I mean, I _guess_ he should make a move.”

He makes no mention of what Hercules had told him a few months back at his shop. Alex figures it best to let things work out naturally.

Lafayette’s shocked expression turns into a grimace. “You should take the same advice for yourself, _Alexandre_ ,” Lafayette responds. He sends Alex a fake smile. “It would do _wonders_ for you and _Le Général_.”

Flabbergasted by the mere _implication_ of the Frenchman’s words, Alex’s jaw drops but he doesn’t reply. A snicker comes from John’s side of the couch. In lieu of a verbal response, Alex throws a piece of popcorn at him.

“Dude!” John shouts. He jumps up and grabs the popcorn bowl from Alex. Pelting popcorn pieces at Alex, John laughs. “Take that!”

The inner child in Alex decides to retaliate as he tries to block the incoming hits. He grabs a handful of the popcorn from the floor around him and flings them back at John, accidentally hitting Lafayette in the process.

“Alexander!”

The air around them turns into a flurry as the three pelt popcorn at one another like middle-schoolers in a food fight. It isn’t until Lafayette yelps that they stop.

“Sweetie, no!” The Frenchman shouts. Presuming that Lafayette is talking to Sweetlips, Alex glances at the dog to find him eating some of the popcorn. The dog ceases his snacking and looks up, caught red-handed.

“Good boy,” John coos, walking over and scratching Sweetlips’ behind his ears.

“ _Mon Dieu_ , we’ve made quite a mess.” Lafayette shakes his head, looking around the room. He sighs. “We must clean up.”

Both Alex and John groan. Accepting his fate, Alex begins to pick up some of the popcorn. John follows and so does Lafayette.

“At least we had fun,” Alex says, smiling. Sure, they made a complete mess like a couple of immature kids. But, that was something Alex missed out on when he was young.

A few nights later, Alex is wrapped in his bed sheets and attempting to fall asleep, when he gets a call on the phone Washington had insisted on buying him. He’s too drowsy to think about checking the caller ID before he picks up so without looking, he presses accept, hoping to get the call over with so he can _sleep_.

“Hello?” Alex says, quiet and sleepy.

There’s a sigh of relief on the other end. “Alexander. I didn’t think you would be awake.”

It’s Washington, and Alex doesn’t want to say he is _happy_ his boss is contacting him, but there _is_ a certain feeling of relief in his chest.

“Why are you calling me so late, sir?” For a few seconds, Washington gives no response. “Sir?”

“I wanted to hear your voice,” Washington finally answers. “I wanted to make sure you were doing alright.”

And then it’s Alex who doesn’t answer. Mainly due to him not knowing _how._ He tries to ignore it by changing the subject. “Why aren’t you asleep, sir?”

There’s a light chuckle from Washington’s end of the line. “I wish I could be. There’s just too much work.”

“I’m sure if you had taken me with you, you would be asleep right now.” The words come out more acidic than Alex intends. He doesn’t mean to seem resentful, but he knows how it sounds. “I’m sorry, I didn’t me–”

“I _would_ greatly appreciate if I could have you here with me now, Alexander. But, it’s just too dangerous. And I can’t risk losing you.”

Washington’s words hit him in a way nothing ever has before. Alex shudders, even wrapped in his sheets. He doesn’t want to think too much about the implication of Washington’s words. He _certainly_ doesn’t want to think too much about the _‘I can’t lose you either’_ that is prepared to roll right off his tongue.

He pushes the words down and chooses something less damning, despite every thought racing through his head. Despite every part of his brain screaming at him that maybe Washington feels something similar.

“Well, I don’t want to keep you from your work, sir. I should probably get to bed anyway.”

“Goodnight then. I hope to see you soon, Alexander.” The call ends and Alex shuts off his phone for the night. He places the phone on his bedside table and finally gets to lay his head back down on his pillow. It takes Alex a while, but he does eventually fall asleep.

He dreams of broad shoulders and a deep, baritone voice.

**Works inspired by this one:**

  * [swimming with the sharks](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16358741) by [smallredboy](https://archiveofourown.org/users/smallredboy/pseuds/smallredboy)




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